


dip it in a honey bowl (rub it in with vinegar and oil)

by peculiar_mademoiselle



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Feminist Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:54:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26671744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peculiar_mademoiselle/pseuds/peculiar_mademoiselle
Summary: "For a split second she imagines placing her booted foot on his chest, and pushing him into the dark water. As he fell, he’d gaze at her in awe and horror. He’d remember just who she is."The Lost Weekend - from Yoko's perspective.
Relationships: John Lennon/May Pang, John Lennon/Paul McCartney, John Lennon/Yoko Ono, Yoko Ono/David Spinozza
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	dip it in a honey bowl (rub it in with vinegar and oil)

She decides right then, at that god-awful party. Perched on the arm of a chair, ankles crossed, gazing at a grimy floor, she avoids everyone’s pitying stares as John’s groans of pleasure reverberate through the room like a miserable drum beat. She hates being pitied. _She’s a cool chick, baby_. And she’s proud of that, it means her cigarette doesn’t tremble in her hand when she lifts it to her mouth.

They do a photo shoot the next morning, on the docks. John is sheepish, feet turning inwards, lips pulled half-way between a pout and a smirk, like a naughty child who’s been caught hoarding cookies beneath his bed. She’s waved off his half-hearted apologies already, and now can only smile at him indulgently, but her stomach turns. He gets down on his knees at one point, mock-begging for forgiveness, and though it’s buried deep, the rage within her briefly flashes white hot. 

For a split second she imagines placing her booted foot on his chest, and pushing him into the dark water. As he fell, he’d gaze at her in awe and horror. He’d remember just who she is. 

It’s not long after that she tells him, sat up in bed as he stands at the foot of it. She gets the response she’d craved. He pleads, voice desperate and wheedling, gripping onto their bedposts until he’s white-knuckled. 

“Please. Please baby, I love you,” her husband stares at her face, trying to lock onto her eyes. She doesn’t let him. Instead she shows those dark depths only to the white bedspread. When she answers him, her voice is like a cool wind. 

“It’s what’s best for you, my love,” she breathes, closing her eyes against his groan of dismay and angry shake of the bed frame. She pictures his long-fingered hands wringing the rail like a tiny neck, and even now she’s warmed by the fact that he dare not touch hers. 

The first night alone in their bed is a revelation. Her shudders are so violent she’s worried she’ll shake apart, and the tears come to her eyes unbidden. Seven years from now, she’ll cry in an empty bed again, and the guilt over the relief she felt on this day will lick at her like flames. Still, the relief is real, and heady, like she’s been walking in heels all day, and didn’t realise how much they pinched until she kicked them off. 

Returning to Japan for her tour is like breaching the surface of a pool she hadn’t even noticed she was drowning in. She steps off the plane under the lights of endless flashbulbs, and relishes in the way her arms are open, gripping onto each handrail. Clinging to no-one but herself. Cries of her name surround her, repeated over and over until it’s like the beating of wings. She’d almost forgotten what it sounded like, when not preceded by the words _John and_.

The Plastic Ono Super Band. It’s a dig really. The extra superlative thrown in for a reason. Plastic Ono Band? Well, this iteration is better, best. These are my people, not yours. After all, this was _my idea_. This version also has David, with his olive skin and his soft touch. He’s a perfectionist, and handles her in the same precise and careful way he handles his guitar. She doesn’t love him, of course, but sometimes it’s nice to be fucked without the weight of worship. 

As she whirls around on stage, clicking back and forth in her platform boots, she resists the urge to turn and share a secret smile with the empty space beside her. Years ago a critic had rather kindly described her voice as the screams of a dying bird. Maybe she had been dying, all this time, bending her neck to defer, weakening it until her head rolled off completely. Ah, John, the reluctant Perseus. Each time we don’t say what we want to say, we’re dying…

But she’s 40 now, and reborn.

She stays in contact with John. May isn’t proving as proficient in this particular task as she was at admin. She adores John, no doubt, but she can’t handle him. Yoko’d accidentally promoted the plate spinner to lion tamer in this circus of theirs, and made the mistake of assuming that just handing the poor girl the whip and the chair would be enough. She doesn’t react much, when she’s informed about the sanitary towel and the waitress, but she picks at her fingers until they bleed. 

He comes to see her once, and he’s light, jovial, dancing on the balls of his feet. He reeks of drink. She ignores the way his eyes catalogue her house and her body, darkening when he spots the flush of a love bite sitting on her collarbone. His goodbye is more subdued than his hello. 

The next day, she arrives home late after a day in the city, and finds the new vase she’d bought for herself in shattered fragments on the ground. He’d thought it was a gift, and come back to destroy it. She cuts her hands fishing the shards out of the soft white carpet, and smears blood on the phone when calling the locksmith. Yes, the locks need changing. No, I’ll only need the one key, thank-you.

You see John, that’s the problem with reality. It bites. 

The call from Paul is a shock. She hasn’t spoken to him in years, she barely knows him even. The last time she’d given him any real thought was the day she leaned over to John and whispered, high-pitched and girlish, “The only thing he done was yesterday…” basking in the warmth of his laugh. She doesn’t regret that day, though people tell her she should. They didn’t see that way Paul looked at her when she made her first suggestion at the sessions, like she wasn’t fit to be crushed by his shoe. 

Still, despite that, she feels some form of comradeship with him, in that he’s perhaps the only other person on the Earth to know how to go toe-to-toe with John Lennon. Sometimes she thinks the two of them must have been in love. Sometimes she thinks there’s is the pain of an almost, not quite, and now never, love affair. Perhaps they’re all living in the shadows cast by the wreckage of that what-if. 

He wants her to take him back. He’s business-like, and cold, but he paints a picture of a shell of a man, held together by cheap highs and cheaper whores. Of May there is little mention, other than her being a ‘nice girl’ - of course that’s all he observed. What a typical man. 

She listens to his (clearly prepared) speech in silence, hmm-ing and uhhuh-ing in the appropriate places. Only when he’s done does she speak. 

“Thank-you Paul. But John can come home when he’s ready.”

“What? What do you mean by ready? Yoko he’s-” his voice has some heat in it, finally. Interesting. 

“Yes, I do understand. And I appreciate you reaching out to me. Talk to John, maybe you can help him.”

“Yoko-”

“You should be going Paul. Get back to your wife,” she hangs up, before she can verify whether he heard the slight. She still remembers the hot crawling feeling of his eyes boring into hers, she’ll never forget it. _Get back to where you once belonged._ Not here, anywhere but here. Get back. Get out. She might have slammed the phone down with more force than necessary, it isn’t sitting straight. She pushes it back in place with one finger, as her heart rate slows. 

Somehow Paul’s words worm their way into her heart, and she begins to worry. By the time she’s sat in the audience for Elton John’s show the sight of John makes something inside her bleed. He looks shy, unsure, nervously ducking and diving. He’s not her John at all. Except he is, and she wants to hold him against her chest until he can sing without shaking. 

When their eyes meet backstage, she’s transported. Her hair may be frizzier, her face more lined, but she’s suddenly back there, shooing him away from her exhibit at the Indica. That same frisson of electricity, of recognition, of _oh there you are_ , burns between them. She knows John feels it too, his nostrils flare, and his grip tightens on his glass. 

Oddly they don’t speak much that evening. Instead they find themselves awkwardly jammed in a booth with a delightful, if slightly starstruck Elton, regaling them both with tales of fabulous misadventure. Eventually, Uri Geller wanders over, and starts bending all the fucking spoons on the table. It’s so ridiculous, that both she and John double over laughing. Their peals intertwine, and she closes her eyes to listen. She’d forgotten they made such beautiful music together. 

A few weeks later, she’s sat by the phone again. At a crossroads. Is it a waste of a rebirth, to try and drink the same poison again? Or is she immune to it now? Her body stronger, not just a mended object, but one remade. Perhaps what once was hemlock will now just be herbal tea. She picks up the phone. 

“John. Yes, it’s me. Are you still looking to give up smoking? Only I’ve been doing some reading…”

**Author's Note:**

> This is of course, all fiction, though some of the events and conversations are real and/or taken from interviews. And yes, Uri Geller did gate crash John and Yoko's reunion and start bending spoons, according to Elton John's autobiography. Stranger than fiction, eh? The title is taken from Yoko's song 'She Gets Down On Her Knees'.
> 
> This is dedicated to withthebeatlesgirls on Tumblr, who is an endless font of knowledge and good conversation. Check her out. 
> 
> Feel free to reach out to me on Tumblr too - comewhatbrianmay. 
> 
> Do let me know what you think! I feel like Yoko gets so little exploration, I'm always keen to hear people's thoughts. Thanks for reading! x


End file.
